


The Time-Traveller's Portion

by PutItBriefly



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PutItBriefly/pseuds/PutItBriefly
Summary: Darcy always knew she was to be his wife. He just didn't know she was poor.
(Time travel mechanic based on "The Time-Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger.)





	

_ October, 1812  
_ _ Meryton, Herts. _

Charles Bingley was an unending river of enthusiasm. One might think him incapable of registering disinterest in others.  _ He _ enjoyed everything placed before him, therefore, so must everyone. “But,” he pressed, insensible of his friend’s various attempts to turn him away, “there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

He was not blind. Bingley’s partner  _ was _ pretty and if one of her sisters was equally so, she might be worth the misery of the dance itself for the satisfaction of thirty minutes of her attention. Darcy’s interest was roused well enough to ask, “Which do you mean?”

Bingley gestured towards a girl sitting just behind them, her foot tapping to the rhythm of the dance she had been forced to sit out. She must have been able to hear Bingley talking about her, for she looked up just as Darcy turned around, her dark eyes meeting his. She stilled, then sat up straighter, self-consciously halting the tapping of her toes. Hope persuaded her to show herself at her best advantage.

She desired a partner.  

Darcy started and looked away. Hope shone in his friend’s eyes as clearly as the young lady’s. Pretty Miss Bennet was Bingley’s favourite of the evening. He wished to be a hero to her by finding a dance partner for her neglected sister. 

“Bingley, do not be absurd,” Darcy said coldly. “I certainly shall not dance with such a girl. I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Defeated, Bingley rejoined his partner in the dance. Under the spectre of a powerfully foul mood, Darcy stalked the edges of the ballroom, weaved through the card room and finally, feeling suffocated by the crowded assembly, went outside. 

The many revellers at the ball had arrived in innumerable carriages with their innumerable coachmen and outriders. He began to walk. His dearest friend had always told him walking was the best cure for anxiety, and while he rarely felt particularly anxious, he detested crowds. They were not safe. 

He was unaccustomed to the rural, unpolished society of such a village. The assembly could be heard from blocks around. Everyone who could afford the price of entry was in attendance and those who could not were crowded around the hall. Darcy did not fear being unable to find his way back in the dark. He could simply follow the noise.

He breathed deeply. The night air was fresh, not like the humid atmosphere of an assembly with too many bodies and too many closed windows. It was cool and quiet. Darcy stopped walking. 

Hands pulled his arm and sweet breath was on his face. A hug, a kiss, a sigh.

It was too dark to see her face clearly. He would not make a guess at her age. 

Irritated, he said, “You had not told me you were poor.”

The woman, happy to see him a moment ago, withdrew. Moonlight exaggerated every crease on her skin, but her forehead frowned. Her eyes narrowed. She said, “Why should it matter?”

And she left.

 

_ June, 1792  
_ _ Pemberley, near Lambton, Derbys. _

“Are you a Darcy?”

The lady on the lawn fanned herself and laughed. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

Fitzwilliam crossed his arms and tried to look stern and important. “There is a painting of my grandmama in the gallery.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the emerald the lady wore. “And she is wearing  _ that _ necklace.”

“I do hope someone will teach you not to point,” the lady replied. “It is quite rude. But, you are a very bright little boy, so I shall tell you: yes, I am a Darcy. I am very fond of this emerald, though I do not much like the setting. My husband refuses to get it reset! He is silly, don’t you think?”

“I think he is right,” Fitzwilliam answered. “That is my grandmama’s necklace and you should leave it alone. Also, I am not little, I am seven years old, and you should not call people rude.”

She smiled like she was swallowing a secret. “You are entirely correct. Please accept my apologies.”

“Fitz!”

Fitzwilliam turned around. George was running towards him, out of breath. He had probably run all the way from the house without stopping, which was a long way to run. George was such a show off.

When he reached his friend, George tumbled to the ground in a theatrical demonstration of how exhausted he was from his run. “I have been looking all over for you!”

“I thought we should not leave strange ladies all alone,” Fitzwilliam said, “so I came back.”

“Well, I asked Mrs. Reynolds and she said there have not been any tours to-day. She says she never does tours while you are here and that you know that and that I should not have even asked!”

“Of course she’s not part of a tour!” Fitzwilliam cried, even though when the boys first came across her, that was precisely what he had insisted. “She’s a Darcy!”

Quizzically, George looked up at him. “Did she go to the house?”

The lady was gone.

“We ought to check!” 

Fitzwilliam’s feet flew as far as they could take him, but it was a long way to the great house and he had to stop and catch his breath long before he got there. By the time he clamoured inside, George had caught up with him. Mrs. Reynolds insisted there was no Mrs. Darcy but Fitzwilliam’s mama at Pemberley. When he asked about his grandmother’s necklace, she told him that his grandmother had it.

“No, she doesn’t! She’s in London, she can’t have it, I saw it to-day!”

Like the lady, Mrs. Reynolds was of the opinion that being seven years old was still being a little boy. She had no answers and her only suggestion was the decidedly unhelpful, “Go play.”

 

_ November, 1812  
_ _ Netherfield Park, near Meryton, Herts. _

He had been brash.

It was not an accusation Darcy leveled against himself regularly, but in this instance, yes.

He told himself he had been startled -- that any man would be in his place -- and that he could not reasonably be expected to adhere to whatever first impressions anyone made on him in such a miserable setting as a country assembly.

In more selective company, at dinners or small parties hosted by the best families this part of the country could boast, Miss Elizabeth Bennet showed herself to a better advantage. His attraction grew every moment he spent in her company. She was never without a bon mot. She sang, not proficiently, but with sincerity and sweetness. By his third glance, he was willing to admit she was handsome and by the fifth, she was alluring.

The oldest sister of that too fecund family remained an object of fascination to Bingley. His own sisters, partially from duty and partially from having no one better, extended the hand of friendship to Miss Bennet. In their wisdom, they had invited her to dine on a dreary, overcast day that made good on its threats of a downpour. Miss Bennet took ill, Miss Elizabeth took to nursing and Mr. Darcy took to utter madness.

How was such a thing to be navigated?

“You should not be here.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “It is not my choice, is it?” She stretched, her limber body laid out on his bed. 

“If you are seen --”

“I’m never seen! Not by anyone but you! Not by anyone who would recognise me!”

“In London, at Pemberley. Here, you could be recognised by anyone.”

She picked up a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “That is true. I promise faithfully to remain out of sight and quiet as a mouse.”

“With luck, you shall be gone soon.”

Elizabeth pouted. “What a cruel thing to say! You would wish me gone?”

Darcy shook his head. “I simply do wish either of us to be caught in a situation you would be forced to explain.”

She tossed the pillow aside. “I shall not go in your dressing room. You must tell the maids they are not to come into your bedroom to tend the fire or any such thing for the time being. No one will know. And, one afternoon, should you come up to dress for dinner and find me gone -- well. You will know where I went, and you shall have no more cause to worry.”

“Until then, where will you sleep?”

She looked about. “I am cosy where I am.”

He was silent.

She shook with giggles that she endeavoured to repress, and was nearly successful. “Trust me, my dear, I know Miss Elizabeth has you tied up in knots half the time and erect the rest.” 

That accusation was not true, but it was close enough to the truth that his face grew hot. She laughed and held out her arms. He was not a strong enough man to reject such a blatant invitation. He never had been, not since the first time she offered when he was a mere lad of eighteen.

His valet thought he had a mistress. The woman Wright had invented was remarkable. Her discretion was impeccable, she disdained material advantages, she never teased her connection to a powerful family, and she had never once been clearly seen by any of the household help. The truth was more remarkable than even that.

When he woke up, she was gone.

 

_ May, 1803  
_ _ London, Middx. _

The city streets were crowded.

He hated crowds.

Too many people meant too many eyes meant someone could see something he very much did not want to be seen.

A girl appears on a London street out of the air, does anyone notice?

Darcy did. 

No one around him startled, no commotion kicked up.

Too many people for anyone to notice anything but themselves, perhaps.

He tipped his hat and said, “Miss --?” He had no idea what her name was. When he was a boy, she had always seemed so old. She was a Darcy, so therefore she was  _ Mrs. Darcy _ . She appeared out of the air and disappeared the same way. Every time he saw her, she was different. Five and thirty when he was seven. Wrinkled, wise and telling him everything when he was eight. Her face was smoother but her hair already begun turning white when he was nine. When he was eleven, she was nine and twenty and very merry, for her eldest son had just come home on his first holiday from school. This time, she was a girl.

She startled when he addressed her, but beamed when she saw his face. “I am married, sir,” she chided happily.

“Yes,” Darcy bristled, “my apologies.” He was a terrible liar and worse at inventing something whole cloth, but he fiercely needed to get her off the streets before she disappeared. “My mother was telling me how she hoped you would call on her to-day.”

Her mouth quirked. “The very thing I had come to Town to do! Please, lead the way.”

Darcy hustled her into his carriage and when he had achieved some measure of safety asked, “Forgive me, but what is your age? You look too young to be married.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I am one and twenty, and I was married just yesterday! And what is your age?”

“Eighteen.”

“Gracious! When I am from, you are eight and twenty -- seven years my elder! This is the first I have seen you so young!”

“You have always been older than me. You still are, but this is the youngest I have ever seen you.” 

Eagerly, she nodded. “You told me -- after we were married, you told me. You know I am a time-traveller, you said I have watched you grow up! You cannot know how relieved I was when you revealed that you knew. I wished to tell you but did not know how you would ever believe me! And anxiety always makes it worse.”

“Walking makes it better.”

Gleefully, she laughed. “Indeed! The more I walk, the less I am pulled through time! The more I worry, the  _ more _ I am pulled through time! So I work very hard to not worry and I walk as much as I can.” Elizabeth looked around. “This is a very handsome carriage you have.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes narrowed in a sort of amused thoughtfulness. “You are staring at me.”

“My apologies.”

“Now, I know you have always known me --” “-- Since I was seven.” “-- and you have always always known I am your wife.”

“Not since the first time,” Darcy clarified, “but since I was fairly young, yes.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am sure I was not very appealing when I was fifty and you were twelve. But what do you think of your choice now? I am a fresh young bride and you are a better age to appreciate one.”

Honestly, he said, “I think I picked very well.”

Sagely, Elizabeth nodded. “Young brides are vain creatures who want to hear nothing but precisely that. You shall make a fine husband!”

“Am I not already a fine husband? In your natural time and place, that is?”

Wrinkling her nose, Elizabeth said, “We only married yesterday! I have faith that you will make a truly exemplary husband, but I am afraid you have not had much occasion to prove me right just yet.”

“What occasions have I had?”

“Well, if we are talking strictly about you being husbandly, there was the wedding itself, where you performed very well. There was the wedding breakfast where you performed less well, but,” she shrugged, “there were a lot of people and you dislike crowds. You did your best. Then we travelled to London and the trip was quite pleasant.”

None of those were among the particular occasions he wished to hear of, but he was too well-bred to ask any woman -- even one who would be his wife in ten years -- about the thing he most longed to know. He sat in uncomfortable silence while she looked out the carriage window and cheerfully narrated everything they passed. London was scarcely a thing of interest to Darcy -- it was a place he went when required to come. Through Elizabeth’s eyes, Mayfair seemed brand new.

He had never seen her so young before.

Far from a new bride, still glowing with happiness from her wedding, the Elizabeth he was accustomed to was an old matron and mother. The question had never crossed his mind before, if only because the answer was so obvious.

“Are you a virgin?”

Elizabeth choked. She turned very red -- with embarrassment, he noted, not a lack of breath. She was breathing so well her bodice seemed to strain from the effort of containing her chest. Finally, she said, “No, not any longer, thank you.” Then, wickedly, “Are you?”

He said, “Yes.”

“That explains it.”

“Pardon?”

“My husband,” Elizabeth announced, “told me that he knows all about my secret, that I have been travelling to him for his entire life -- that now that we are married, all of my time-travelling will be to him. Since I was a little girl, I have never been able to control it. It’s a frightening thing, to appear in places where you have no friends, no notion of when you are and no way to get home. I am relieved to know I shall always be safe, and happy to watch you grow up. But, he told me that this visit was his most cherished of them all.” She smiled a lopsided smile. “I do think he intends for you to take me to bed.”

The revulsion that Darcy might have felt if any other woman claimed her husband intended for her to be available to other men curiously did not appear. Elizabeth was  _ his _ wife. He had long felt all the tenderness a man should feel for his wife towards her. But, he had thought about intimacy with her only in the sense that he knew someday they  _ would _ be intimate. She had never been specific about their children, insisted his life should hold some surprises, but he knew there were a few little boys, a few little girls. He knew how that would happen.  

She was always a woman, he a boy. Now, for the first time, their ages were close enough that when she looked upon him, she did not see a boy. He was a younger version of her husband, but her husband all the same. The idea that she finally saw him as a man, virile and capable of pleasing a woman, made Darcy stir in a manner Elizabeth never inspired in him before.

Despite the excuse he made to get her into his carriage, his mother was not at the London house. The story had not even been for her benefit so much as the benefit of anyone who might have seen them leave the street together. If the servants cared to gossip below stairs about their young master spiriting a lady up to his bedroom, he could not stop them. But he also knew that they would find no trace of any woman, never be able to tie what fleeting glances of her they might see to a courtesan in the city. Elizabeth, he now knew, was actually seven years his junior. The real Elizabeth was far away, eleven years old in a schoolroom somewhere, never to be linked to the worldly pleasures shown to him by this young bride. 

 

_ November, 1812  
_ _ Netherfield Park, near Meryton, Herts. _

Something had gone wrong.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet was an entirely unsuitable candidate for his wife. She was as witty as he expected. She loved to challenge his opinions and she loved to laugh. She was handsome and charming. 

But only one thousand pounds in the five percents after the death of her mother! The mother herself -- appalling in every way. Miss Elizabeth had an uncle in trade and another who was an attorney. Her younger sisters were all out at once, running amok and making fools of the entire family. 

Mrs. Darcy was refined. She was precisely what his wife should be. He had always assumed that when he found her, it would be in his own circle. It was so clearly where she belonged. A woman of her intelligence and talents must be the product of a fine school, must be the product of well-bred parents.

But, somehow, she was not.

He had asked Mrs. Darcy whenever she appeared. His being in her own part of the country must make him more of a lodestone than usual. Her appearances were generally months apart and of a few hours’ duration. Suddenly, she was appearing frequently. A moment here, a moment there. He wanted to know more about her situation, but she dismissed it as unimportant. What could be more important than his family’s name, honour and expectations? Perhaps she did not understand.

Perhaps...perhaps Mrs. Darcy was from a family beneath his own, but one only barely so. She could not comprehend the extent his concerns because they were so minor in her time. 

Perhaps something had changed between her life and his, causing  _ this _ Miss Elizabeth Bennet to be positioned in an entirely different place in society. He had known he was to marry Elizabeth since he was a child, but this could not be his proper bride. She attracted him, yes, but he could not marry her. Perhaps Mrs. Darcy’s being pulled through time had not been without consequence.

Darcy knew he must resist Miss Elizabeth. He could not build his life on attraction when she was lacking so many fundamental requirements to be his wife. But he did not know how he could possibly forget her. He had never considered resisting her before. It was natural and right to love her. She owned all of his tenderness, all of his anxiety. He had never sought the comfort of another woman’s body. He had his Elizabeth. What else could he need?

When Bingley hosted a ball, she finally danced with him. Half an hour of he and Elizabeth in the sight of everyone, courting as young lovers should! She teased him, tortured him, tempted him as she so loved to do. Even his anger that she could be so fond of George Wickham was easy to disregard. 

He could not resist her.

Perhaps something had changed. Maybe there were infinite Englands, infinite Elizabeths and he had the poor luck to be saddled with the one who was poor. Why should that change anything? He would marry her, elevate her, and all would be as it should.

But, come to think of it,  _ his _ Elizabeth had never mentioned Miss Bennet.

The Netherfield ball, which should by all rights be buzzing with anticipation over the inevitable nuptials of Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth was instead concerned only with Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet. Any woman should be pleased to be kept in close company with her sister after their marriages. The eldest two Bennets were particularly devoted to one another. His Elizabeth had never, in twenty years, mentioned that these two sisters had married two close friends. The omission left him with a queasy feeling. Miss Bennet was pleased by Bingley’s attention, but she behaved with such serenity he could not think she returned his affection. A marriage between the two of them was not something Elizabeth had shared with Darcy.

Something was wrong.

Something had changed.

They had really better go before someone did something that could not be undone.

The day after the ball, Bingley was to go to London for business. If the rest of his party followed him, distracted him, kept him from returning to Netherfield, Darcy could ask his wife why she had never mentioned Miss Bennet before. If there was a reasonable explanation, all the better. But if her Miss Bennet had not married Mr. Bingley -- assuming there even  _ were _ Bennets in her life -- then they would all be saved from a very large mistake.

 

_ March, 1813  
_ _ London, Middx. _

Elizabeth walked.

She walked as much as she was able because she had a husband, children in the nursery and a household that needed its mistress to run smoothly. When she got enough exercise, her time-travelling became infrequent. And while she was sincerely pleased to visit him throughout his life, it was less because she was pleased to travel and more because she was pleased to have the safety of his company. She did not actually enjoy time-travel itself and if she could put a stop to it all together, she had never disguised that she would.

That he had not seen her since leaving Hertfordshire should not concern him. Darcy knew sometimes, Elizabeth was able to go without time-travel for long stretches of time. She had never, to his knowledge, managed to go an entire year without a single trip, but she had come close to that many times.

It was too soon to be worried that her visits had ceased, but it was difficult to not take her disappearance as confirmation that he was right. He relied on her to verify her place in society and her sister’s marriage, yet when he removed himself and his friend from those concerns, Elizabeth was gone. 

Perhaps by removing them from the Bennet family’s sphere of influence, he had stopped the time-travel. He had ended the marriage before it occurred. Elizabeth would not reappear.

Darcy walked.

 

_ April, 1813  
_ _ Rosings Park, near Hunsford, Kent _

Her presence was so sudden, so shocking that it took him a moment to register that he was looking at Miss Elizabeth Bennet, firmly rooted in her proper place in time. He was sick with relief. There was time to fix everything, time to have her back. The world had righted itself, brought him together again with the girl who would be his wife.

And soon. In those six miserable months, he had turned eight and twenty. This was the year they would be wed.

She was, he thought, pleased to see him as well. It would be madness to assume she felt the same solace in his company that he did in hers. She had not suffered, wondering if the future, the life, the love he had known for twenty years was lost, never to be. She was just a sweet young lady whose suitor disappeared and by the grace of God, was returned to her side.

During their evenings at his aunt’s house, he lingered by the piano while she played. Elizabeth set the full force of her barbed wit on him, and he was delighted.

In the mornings, she told him her favourite places in the park to walk and she held his arm while he planned their lives.

 

_ July, 1807  
_ _ Pemberley, near Lambton, Derbyshire _

“Are our children pulled through time?”

Elizabeth frowned.

“I think I ought to know, so I am prepared.”

“I rob your life of suspense enough as it is!”

“I do not want much suspense, so that is well enough. I just think I ought to know.”

“So that you may worry about it, you mean,” Elizabeth corrected.

Darcy shrugged.

“They are not. It passes through papas. It happens to my father, it happens to me.”

“Does he walk also?”

“No.” Elizabeth scowled. “I do not believe my parents’ marriage is much like ours. I am so attached to you.” She stopped while he preened. “My father regrets his choice of bride. I do not think he ever sees her when he travels. He spends all his days in his book-room, being still and lazy. He is gone nearly as much as he is home. It is his escape from a life he does not wish to have. I wish to share my life with my husband so much that even when I leave him, I come to him!”

 

_ April, 1813  
_ _ Rosings Park, near Hunsford, Kent _

He fled the parsonage in a mindless flurry of emotion. Anger, humiliation, indignation.

_ How dare she? _

He wanted to elevate her. He wanted to give her a home worthy of her. He wanted his children to be nurtured by her. He had respected her intelligence enough to forgo pretending there were no serious drawbacks to the match. And she! The very same woman who professed to love and adore him over the course of nearly his  _ entire life _ threw baseless accusations of wrongdoing and cast serious aspersions on his character!

He tore into the great house in such a temper that he startled the butler and nearly shouted at his aunt. Desiring the company of absolutely no one, he went up the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. All of his agitation seemed to pool in his hands. Darcy struggled to pull his tight evening coat off by himself just for the satisfaction of having something to  _ fight _ . He balled it up and threw it on the floor. He paced the room in a cloud of fury, wanting something else to throw but having enough sense to not go breaking Lady Catherine’s trinkets.

_ How dare she? _

How many times had she kissed him? How many times had she burrowed into bed with him? How many times had she smiled at something he said as though it was a great joke that he didn’t know yet, but soon would? How many times had she told him that she loved him, that her love for him was the strongest force on Earth? She had not the strength to stop herself from being pulled through time, but when she was, she was pulled to him.

She came to him because she  _ loved _ him.

How could she not love him? He was at a loss.

“Oh, you are finished. Excellent, I was becoming concerned.”

“You!”

Elizabeth, in her thirties, perhaps, was sitting at his writing desk. She had her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand and had apparently been watching his fit the entire time. “Yes, it is I, very shocking, I know, for I hardly ever do anything like this.”

He stared, dumbfounded.

“I am afraid I don’t recognise this room, so I don’t know when I am or why you are so upset. What has happened?” She held a hand out to him.

Darcy stared at it.

With an anxious sweep of her skirts, she stood up. Worried eyes wandered over his face. “Fitzwilliam?”

The words came out as though squeezed from his lungs -- “How could you?” -- and then he all but collapsed her into arms, weeping against her neck.

She staggered under the sudden force of his body, but righted herself. Her arms cradled him as long as he needed to be held. When he was calm enough to be walked to the chair, she led him that way and with her hip cocked against the desk and one arm draped over his shoulders asked, “Fitzwilliam, what happened?”

“You won’t have me.”

She inhaled sharply and stepped back.

He laughed bitterly. “And now you reject me also?”

“No, no, Fitzwilliam, I am so sorry, so  _ ashamed… _ ”

It took too long for the wounded fog that was his mind to make any sense of what she had said. “You knew?”

Elizabeth folded her hands in front of herself. “I  _ was _ there…”

She was not speaking as an observer. “Why did you never tell me?”

Elizabeth sighed. “When I was young, it was out of shame. You didn’t deserve what I said and I hated to think about it.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I could have.” She sucked on her bottom lip for a moment, thinking. “But with time and distance -- as I grew older, I should say -- and I came to understand you better, the more I understood that this was a lesson you needed. It was a lesson we  _ both _ needed. If I had told you it was going to happen, you could not learn from it. I would not have learnt from it. Then where would we be?”

“How can I be need of a lesson and not deserve what you said at the same time?” Elizabeth did not usually speak in riddles and he was irritated that she did so now.

But the Elizabeths of the world wanted nothing more to-day than to vex him as much as possible. “I’m not going to tell you. You have to decide what you want to do for yourself.”

He growled, “I never wish to see you again!” She winced, and he immediately felt ashamed of the outburst.

After the briefest pause, she laughed it off. Darcy was a connoisseur of Elizabeth’s laughter. To his practised ears, it sounded forced. “That wish will not come true.” She turned and walked towards the bed on the other side of the apartment. She sat stiffly on the edge, not to entice him, but because that was as far from him as she could get.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“Then come back.”

“I said I knew you didn’t mean it. I didn’t say I am not angry that you said it.”

Darcy scrubbed his face with his hands. “How can I fix this?” 

“You will think of something. Have faith in that, at least.” She made no attempt to come closer to him. Darcy could not take her words as an attempt at encouragement. They sounded more like a statement of fact. That she was here, wearing a ring he must have placed on her finger, was proof enough of that. It pleased her to be mad at him, though, and she wanted to berate him. “You should not throw your fine coat on the floor.”

“Do not speak to me like I am a child.”

“I would not dream of doing so. My children are better bred than that. I had thought the good example their papa makes should get the lion’s share of the credit, but now I see I was mistaken.”

His agitated fingers raked through his hair. “I do not wish to be at odds with you.”

“Then perhaps you should not have been cruel to me.”

Darcy pulled himself from the chair and began to pace. Elizabeth recoiled the first time his circuit took him towards the bed, but when she realised that he was going back and forth and not stopping to bother her, she watched without comment. It was difficult to restrain from lashing out with his heart so thoroughly torn to pieces. When he had walked himself into a calmer frame of mind, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you need to do to show me that you love me.”

“I know I am in a foul temper,” he admitted, “but I think it a justifiable one. There is not a man in Christendom who could be joyful at such a time. Surely I have not made you truly question that I love you.”

“Not this me. That me. The one who said all those things and does not repent them.”

“That’s no use. To show her I love her would be to show I respect her and to do that, I should abide by her wishes and accept the refusal. Yet, you are still my wife so her refusal must be overturned.”

“I am not going to tell you what to do.”

Darcy appraised her. “If that is all you have to say, my own musings must be steering me right.”

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side, refusing to answer him directly but was in such a casual attitude that he felt confident he was correct. 

He bowed. “I accept your refusal, madam.”

She bit at her lips to keep herself from smiling. “Very big of you.”

“And she,” with foolish longing he turned toward the window, “she does not repent any of what she said. She should be ashamed, but she is not. Why does she not feel as she ought?” He looked back to Elizabeth, who gave an exaggerated shrug. Darcy smiled and shook his head. “Because she doesn’t know any better. She thinks what she said is true. I simply need to tell her the truth.”

Elizabeth applauded. “Well done! You see how I needed this lesson, too. Mr. Wickham was charming, and I thought that was the same as being trustworthy. I needed to learn to be more discerning, to not let my vanity turn me away from good men and towards the rakish ones. If I had whispered in your ear that Miss Elizabeth was trusting the wrong people and teaching herself to hate you, you would have simply corrected her. I might have stubbornly disregarded you, I might have let you guide me but I would not have confronted my own character or my own failings, and  _ that _ has been necessary for me.”

Darcy resumed pacing. “She’s too set against me to listen. You know if I had tried to guide you, you would have disregarded me. I cannot just speak to her. I have to deliver the information another way.”

In the end, he wrote a letter. He wrote about his history with Mr. Wickham. He wrote of his misgivings about Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley. Writing, editing and re-writing the missive took him through the night. By the time Darcy finished, the sun had fallen and risen again. He named his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, as another person who knew all the particulars if Miss Elizabeth did not trust Darcy well enough to take his word for it.

Usually, the sporadic appearances of his wife were fairly short. He was given an hour or two of her time and then she disappeared. This night, when he needed her, she remained. He wrote, and she squeezed his shoulder. He wrote, and she flipped through books. He wrote, and she replaced the candles when they were burnt through. He wrote, and not possessed of his fever, she went to bed.

When he left, letter in hand, she was curled up, asleep. He had kissed her cheek, quietly asked her to pray for him and walked out in search of Miss Elizabeth.

 

_ June, 1813  
_ _ London, Middx _

He was reading wedding announcements in the newspaper when it suddenly struck him how remarkably blind he had been. Mrs. Darcy was Mrs. Darcy. He had taken it for granted since he was a child. When a woman marries, she adopts the social standing of her husband. Mrs. Darcy had always seemed so perfectly attuned to her role because she was. She simply had not needed to be born with such a standing to own the identity her marriage had conferred upon her.

He was so accustomed to seeing her wear the trappings of wealth that he had assumed she was born high. For her to have so insufficient a dowry or embarrassing connections was not time itself collapsing and causing a terrible mistake. It was simply his own lack of imagination that he could not picture her as anything but bejeweled Mrs. Darcy. How she had been born was irrelevant. She had been  _ made _ his wife.

So her father had failed to provide her anything. Elizabeth was right.

Why should it matter?

 

_ July, 1813  
_ _ London, Middx. _

Actually, the more he thought about it -- and he thought about it a lot, because Elizabeth had stopped visiting him again, so he had no one to speak to about it -- he really had taken the whole thing for granted.

What had he actually done to woo her? Nothing.

What had he done to show her that he was a desirable partner? Nothing.

He was accustomed to having Elizabeth fall into his arms. Without question, he assumed that she would always do so. Yes, he had accepted that she was owed all he had to offer, but that did not mean that a girl who had just met him must feel he was owed anything. Of course she never warned him! If he had never been taught he needed to make an effort to be worthy of her attention, she would have been doomed to an entire lifetime of being shackled to an entitled husband who took her for granted. 

He was eight and twenty years old.

Darcy knew he would see her again soon. But oh, it was hell to wait.

 

_ August, 1813  
_ _ Pemberley, near Lambton, Derbys. _

She walked. Along the lawn, towards the river.

Their eyes instantly met. Her cheeks flushed with the deepest blush and he knew he must be much the same. The surprise made him immobile. He was accustomed to seeing her older self appear as if from nowhere, but even in her proper place in time, Elizabeth arrived as if travelling by air. He took a moment to compose himself and shortly advanced towards her party. She was accompanied by a gentleman and a lady. 

This time, he would do it right.

 

_ November, 1827  
_ _ Pemberley, near Lambton, Derbys. _

She was mumbling in her sleep. He was a bit put out to have been woke up, but when he had roused himself a bit more, Darcy realised a number of things. Firstly, Elizabeth had not been home when he went to bed. When they were newly married, her disappearances had sent the maids and footmen into an uproar. They were scandalised that he dismissed the idea of search parties or combing through the woods. By now, the entire household was as used to it as he was. No one but Darcy knew where she went but everyone knew she would return on her own. Second, he realised she was still wearing her evening gown and third, she was lying on top of the covers instead of underneath them.

Darcy nudged her.

“You are always in my prayers,” she muttered. One eye opened, then the other. After a moment to acclimate herself, Elizabeth exclaimed, “Oh! I am home!”

“Where had you gone?”

She rolled her shoulders. “Rosings Park, the night I refused to marry you.”

Darcy winced. “I was a beast. Forgive me, I beg you.”

“You were. But you had had a great shock and a greater disappointment, so I suppose I shall.”

“You were perfectly right, of course,” he said after a moment. “You should not have warned me.”

Elizabeth smiled. “You always know just what to say to make forgiving you easier!”

“I mean it.”

“No!” she cried, throwing her arms around his shoulders, “I beg  _ you _ , no speeches about how hard won a lesson it was or how you needed it. I heartily hate thinking about what I said. You are too good, you deserved none of it, and  _ that _ is the truth.”

“You know I needed to learn to behave better.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I shall admit the necessity of it grudgingly and rarely. I have already done so once to-day and shall not do it again for at least another two years.” 

Darcy wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her neck. “Get that gown off and come to bed.”

“I am not going to wake poor Ward at this time of night. Unbutton my gown and light a few candles and I can manage the rest.” Darcy did as she asked and Elizabeth hurriedly changed into a nightgown.

They were settled in bed again, both under the covers, when Darcy said suddenly, “I just remembered something I had wished to ask you back then but had slipped my mind.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you never say anything about Jane and Bingley?”

She laughed. “When have I not talked about them? They are a favourite subject of mine.”

“Yes. Precisely. Through years of time-travel, you never mentioned them to me. I had actually convinced myself that this relationship I knew nothing about was some kind of sign that you were not who I thought you were.”

“Well, I can’t say for certain. There are many older versions of myself that I have not yet become who visit you. When you are a little boy, I suppose I never have a reason to talk about a friend you had not yet met or a sister of mine you had not met. When you are older, I tend to use my time with you in other pursuits.” Elizabeth hummed. “Jane and Charles are a favourite topic of mine, but not one that makes me feel particularly amorous.”

Darcy raised his eyebrows. “Other pursuits, that is what you call it?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Would you prefer I call it lessons?” He scoffed and she continued happily, “What an apt pupil I had! Dedicated ten years to all I had to teach. When your bride finally arrived, you were quite prepared for her.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by ClaireLily and Karen1220. Brit-picking by Skydreamer. "What county is London in?" was a question that took a lot of research, as none and several and itself are all valid answers at different points in time.


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